I just gave my husband notice that we’re moving! After a narrow brush with a heart attack, I’ve decided it’s me or the snake… One of us is going to die, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me!
You know, home ownership was supposed to be this great thing. Everybody kept telling me, “Oh, you need to buy a house. Why would you spend all that money for rent on an apartment when it doesn’t get you anything down the road?” Oh, you mean like tan shirtless boys that mow the yard, a pool to sit by, a back-up generator when the power goes out, and snow removal in the blizzards of 2010? Or did you mean the great things I’d get out of my house like the fact that in the last week I’ve called the plumber for a clogged toilet. I’ve had pest control over for an underlying ant problem (and note to self: better call them back for my snake problem!). My electricity was out so missing an episode of Glee, and to make matters worse my phone lines took a crapper so I had to deal with Cox Cable (yeah, you know what I’m saying there).
So I’m a big girl, and I understand a little rain must fall. I’m not dying of anything that I know of and my husband still comes home at night. So overall, I should be just peachy-keen. But there’s a Shakespearean-style snake in my grass!
You really need to understand how big of a deal this is! There I am being a good little wife and homeowner trotting out to pick up branches from the last lashing of storms before I mow the yard. I timidly leave the sidewalk in search of sticks knowing that the devil himself lurks in my yard. Yes, picture it: I know snakes scurry upon noise so I figure it best to announce my arrival as big man on campus. I venture out, half tip-toeing, commenting aloud that no snakes better show their ugly heads as we have had one too many encounters (1 being too many). Just as I get back to the safety of my sidewalk to chuck the stick pile, I see him! He slithers hurriedly, yet casually, by on his way to the rock next to my steps.
Oh, yeah, I jump. My heart rockets out of my chest! I panic. I drop the sticks as that stealthy black and orange-striped nightmare sneaks by my feet again! (I’m sorry, was I the only one listening in science class when he said orange means danger and to be cautious?) It wasn’t like he was a 6 inch green and black guy, although, let’s be real, he, too, would have sent me into hysteria the likes of which Def Leopard has never known!
Hello, it was a SNAKE!
I realize that I supposedly live in a state that has no venomous snakes, and it should not be a big deal. Yeah, except for the 2 big local news stories this week are about a man choked to death by his pet snake in Papillion and the python they found living down by the river (yes, I’m well aware it sounds like a Saturday Night Live skit). (Which, as a sidebar, what kind of moron goes home and gets his camera to take a picture of a man-eating poisonous python before he calls 911?) No shit! Both this week! So yeah, I think I have cause to be a little freaked out that a black and orange snake that continues to get larger every time I see him (no, it is not my imagination) is a mere few feet away as he slinks into his stone bunker to lay in wait for me.
Yeah, you heard me. The sorry sonuvabitch positions himself partway under the rock with his scaly little head up in the air, tongue out, inches from my front steps ready to pounce on his prey, which, by the way, is me! Well, that bastard doesn’t know who he’s playing! Unbeknownst to him, my front door was unlocked. So I moseyed on in, put on my big-girl panties, headed for the basement, shut my garage door so he couldn’t take refuge in my home, and I got the spade.
And he waited that whole time! Like I didn’t see him or realize he was there! Ha! It was mono e mono. Ali vs. Holmes. Like a pole vaulter, but less accurate, I took my spade and lunged at his grotesque body. He made a break for it. I tracked him as he retreated, flailing the spade like a logger chopping wood, but the bastard got away leaving me shaking in fear and stupidity at missing my chance.
This town ain’t big enough for both of us, and I’ve got 13 years worth of seniority. I’ve got dibs! It’s time he get the hell outta dodge!
I will not be a prisoner in my own yard!
The problem is: I’ve said that before. This isn’t our first round of heated Cowboys and Indians. I read on the internet that snakes don’t like moth balls. I covered our yard in moth balls, so much so that even I grow faint from the scent every time it rains or I mow. Beautiful. Yet, it didn’t drive his ass, or whatever he has, away. And apparently, my leopard print sunglasses and tight, stained blue mowing tank top didn’t put the fear of god in him either (nor did my pink one just for the record). Although I’m pretty sure it worked on my neighbor who arrived home as I was stalking the snake with my spade. He shook his head, mumbled “crazy lady,” and headed into his house, no great act of heroism whatsoever. So I guess I’m left with a few options:
- I can move to a snake-free zone (of which I’m not aware of any).
- I can marry a new husband that makes a lot more money and hire my yard mown.
- I can wage war and play Caddyshack with the reptiles.
- Or I can simply bitch about it and hope that someday I get to run over that piece of shit with my mower.
But I’m open to suggestion…
So, if you’re a snake hunter or have a cure-all, please contact me. If you’re just laughing your ass off at me because I’m a big ole pansy, screw you. You had to be there.